“This is intriguing,” Millie says, eating up my words with rapt attention.
“Yes, but attempting to meet a man you’ve ‘found’ in a book does seem a little, well, insane, doesn’t it?”
“Maybe, but only in the best of ways.” She grins, tucking a fresh paperback onto the shelf. “Valentina, did your mother ever tell you about the life span of a book?”
I smile. “The journey? Yes.”
Mille nods. “It’s vast. That book might have traveled through countless hands before and after this Daniel had possession of it. Finding him might take some work, but I don’t think it’s impossible.”
We’d been so immersed in our discussion that neither of us had noticed the FedEx deliveryman waiting patiently in the doorway. When he clears his throat, Millie startles, apologizing as she quickly smooths her tousled hair, then signs for the packages.
“It’s no trouble,” the man says, as Millie’s cheeks flush.
“Thank you, Fernando,” she says, setting the packages on the counter before introducing me.
“Pleased to meet you,” he says before turning to Millie again. “And…it’s always nice to see you, Ms. Wilson.” His jet-black hair is graying at the temples, though it’s clear he’s at least fifteen years her junior. As they stand beside each other, the top of his head barely reaches her collarbone.
“Please, you’ve been making deliveries here for years. We’re basically…old friends. You must call me Millie.”
“Millie,” he says, holding her gaze for a beat before turning to the door. “Afternoon.”
“Goodbye, Fernando,” she replies with a limp wave, as if her right arm had suddenly lost seventy-five percent of its muscle capacity.
“Well, well, well,” I say teasingly as the delivery truck sets off down the street. “Someone has a crush on the FedEx guy!”
“I most certainly do not,” Millie insists, snapping out of whatever spell she’s just been under.
I smile, helping her finish stocking the new inventory, when I remember my mother’s latest clue. I retrieve my purse and pull out the card to read the last lines to Millie: While I may not be there to dry your tears, there are bighearted people in this neighborhood who are. Think of them as your family, because they were to me. When you need comfort, turn to them, and curl up in the nursery and listen as the old lady whispers, “Hush.”
I look up at her curiously. “Do you have any idea what this means?”
Her eyes sparkle. “Yes, and I know you do, too.”
“But I don’t! I’ve been reading it over and over again, and…I just can’t place it.”
Millie sinks into the old upholstered chair by the window. The arms are threadbare, and likely made what’s-her-name—the interior designer—break out in hives. “When you were born, I sent your mother a box of children’s books—all classics, the ones that have stood the test of time. One, she told me, was an early favorite of yours.”
I bite my lip, trying to extract any memory that might shed light on Mummy’s latest clue. “Peter…Rabbit?” I finally say.
Millie smiles. “Shall I give you a hint?”
“Yes, please.”
“Five words. Are you ready?”
I nod.
“？‘In the great, green room.’？”
I gasp, as my early years flash before my eyes. “？‘There was a telephone, and a red balloon, and’…oh my gosh…Millie! The old lady, whispering hush!” I shake my head, remembering that old beloved book. “Goodnight Moon!”
“Yes. By Margaret Wise Brown.”
The lines were veritably cemented into my subconscious, and yet, in my grief I’d somehow struggled to access them until now. At once, I’m three years old, sitting on my mother’s lap as we linger in the old storybook’s pages, with the mouse, the bowl of mush, the dollhouse, and the old lady whispering hush—a mismatched combination of words and imagery that formed the perfect crescendo, at least to me.
I race to the children’s literature section, scanning the shelves until I see a single copy of Goodnight Moon. But when I flip through its pages, I find…nothing.
“Any luck?” Millie asks, peering around the corner.
“No,” I say, sinking into the threadbare chair to my right.
“You know, Valentina,” she begins. “One of your mother’s dear friends is a woman named May Weatherby. She lives three blocks from here, in the top corner flat of the pastel-blue building.”
I nod, recalling passing the building on my walk with Liza the other day. The flowers in the upper-floor window box had caught my eye.
“It might interest you to know that May’s late husband authored a biography on Margaret Wise Brown. He knew her very well, in fact.” She smiles. “I have a feeling she might point you in the right direction.”
The bells on the door jingle before I can say anything else, and in walks Eric, but this time he’s alone.
“Afternoon, Millie,” he says, adjusting the leather messenger bag on his shoulder. I notice his bike parked on the sidewalk outside.
“Eric!” she says, walking over to greet him. I wave blankly from my chair. “I think you’ll get a kick out of our latest arrivals. There’s something just for you.”
“I’m sure I will,” he replies. “But first, I wondered if you could give me some advice.”
“Try me,” Millie says.
He runs his hand through his hair, then looks back in my direction with a furrowed brow. I wonder if his girlfriend’s niece didn’t like the book. I wonder if—
“It’s Fiona,” he begins. “The problem is…she…isn’t really a reader. And…I just keep thinking that if I could get the right book in her hands, maybe it could open the floodgates, you know?” He looks at me. “Like when your mum gave me a copy of The Adventures of Tom Sawyer. There I was, a surly preteen from London, and suddenly, I was—in my mind, at least—hunting for treasure and sidestepping the scene of a murder on the banks of the Mississippi. It was…remarkable, really. The thing is, once you get lost in a story, you want to get lost in another. It’s a self-fulfilling prophesy.”
Millie smiles at me. “Isn’t that your theory, Valentina, that reading leads to more reading?”
I nod, walking over to the counter, where Millie and Eric are talking.
“That’s just it,” he continues. “And it’s what I hope for Fiona. I want to find the book that turns her on to the world of books.”
When Millie has sufficiently absorbed Eric’s plight, she turns to me. “Valentina, why don’t you help our friend Eric find just the book for his dilemma?”
“Sure,” I say, reaching into my deep, professional librarian reserves. Millie has just tossed a bomb into my lap, which is about to ignite—and she knows it.
Eric follows me as I wind through a maze of bookshelves, waiting patiently for my clairvoyant literary pick, and yet, I am altogether baffled. What on earth am I supposed to suggest that his vapid girlfriend read? There’s no way she’d manage ten pages of Nora Ephron’s Heartburn, or care a thing about Maeve Binchy’s Tara Road. Forget the classics, forget the usual suspects. This assignment was a challenge—a big one.